


Frizzy

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Picard
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26264302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Elnor brushes his hair too close to their prisoner.
Relationships: Elnor/Narek (Star Trek)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	Frizzy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He begins in his quarters. Legs folded neatly atop his freshly-made bed, Elnor unfastens his hair and lets the long stands tumble down his shoulders, tangled from the day’s adventure—there are knots everywhere that his fingers must meticulously loose if he doesn’t want to lose whole chunks. The brush rests in his lap, waiting for its turn. It would be easier if _someone would do it for him_ —for all of Elnor’s skills, he still can’t see the back of his own skull. There’s no one aboard _La Sirena_ he could ask. No one would know how. Except, perhaps, the other Romulan. 

When Elnor starts moving, he tells himself it’s not for that, but simply to stretch his legs. He isn’t used to living on a ship, to being _confined_ , and he must take care not to grow lazy. The ship may travel for him, but his own legs can travel within it. He idly combs through the very ends of one section as he trails through the empty halls. 

The ship isn’t particularly large. It’s big enough for a makeshift prison. When he finds himself outside the brig, he tells himself it’s quite by accident, but he knows that isn’t true. 

He hovers just before the transparent force-field that traps his fellow Romulan inside. Narek wasn’t _quite_ their enemy in the end, but close enough that his ride back to Romulan space isn’t a cushy one—he doesn’t get his own quarters. He doesn’t get to roam about or have access to the ship’s computer. He tells them it’s a death sentence, that his own people won’t welcome him back after his failure, but Elnor’s experienced _just_ enough of the outside world to not trust a word that Narek says. Narek sits on the floor, back against the bulkhead, both knees drawn up to his chest as though his life is over. He looks up when Elnor approaches him, though Elnor offers no greeting. Narek doesn’t deserve that. 

Narek looks at him blankly for a moment, then crooks an almost-smile at one end. He drawls, “I thought you still didn’t like me.”

“I don’t,” Elnor answers, less easily than he would’ve thought—than he would like. Narek’s done very little to redeem himself; the one plan he offered them failed. But Elnor’s there anyway, curious despite himself, slowly dragging the brush through splitting ends. 

Narek’s eyes flicker to that movement. He watches Elnor complete a few slow, methodical strokes before quietly offering, “I could help with that.”

Elnor freezes. His eyes narrow. Narek would likely know how to do it properly, how Elnor _wants_ , except Elnor shouldn’t want Narek anywhere near him. He eyes the dark hair along Narek’s pointed jaw and counters, “Your grooming leaves much to be desired.”

Narek lets out a short laugh. It broadens his grin, and when he tilts his head back against the wall, it musses up his brown-black locks even further. If possible, he had an even rougher time than Elnor, and he’s had no comfy quarters to retire to. Still, Elnor has the feeling Narek _never_ looks quite perfect, whether a calculated choice or not. 

“So that’s why you’re not coming in,” Narek muses, nodding at the invisible wall between them. One arched brow quirks. “Because I look a mess. Not because you’re afraid I’ll escape if you open my cage.”

Elnor’s quick to set him straight: “I’m not afraid, and I could easily defeat you even if you were foolish enough to try.”

Narek gives him a stare that’s somehow both bored and challenging. It makes Elnor’s cheeks feel hot, even though he can’t place why. He’s still not entirely sure why he’s standing there at all. In moments of peace like this, there’s no reason not to let his heart have free rein, but he won’t admit his heart’s bizarre interest this time. 

Narek murmurs, “I used to brush my sister’s hair when we were little.”

The comment is quiet enough to feel intimate. A secret Elnor’s been let in on. An honest one. The brush reaches a snare and pulls—he’s not quick enough to hide the wince it gives him. 

_He could handle Narek._ He’s sure of that. Maybe Narek isn’t even a full enemy anymore, just a passenger Elnor needs to be wary of, but Elnor is always aware and can handle himself. He can trust himself. Something in him longs to open the cell. 

He’s doing just that before he even realizes it. There’s a spark of honour and surprise when he realizes he’s been given that power. He truly is part of the crew. The force-field collapses in a whisper of sparkling blue, and Narek doesn’t move. 

Elnor crosses the threshold. He strolls closer, right to where the pseudo-prisoner sits, then turns and kneels down, perching cross-legged on the floor. He doesn’t bother to move the ever-present weapon from his shoulder—he could draw it faster than Narek could touch it. Narek shifts closer—Elnor can hear the faint rustle of clothing before Narek’s knees poke out on either side of his. The strands swept over Elnor’s shoulders are drawn back—Narek lifts the entire curtain between them, fingers threading through all the way up to Elnor’s scalp. Blunt fingertips rake softly behind either pointed ear. His lips part, breath held as Narek’s feather-light touch dances all the way down to his nape, rising up again along the middle, lifting over him to trace his hairline. Narek carefully gathers it all together. 

“You have beautiful hair,” Narek comments. It sounds genuine. Those fingertips are back behind his ears, skillfully stroking, stimulating—Elnor inclines his head into that tantalizing touch. Then Narek is brushing it all back with just his fingers, tenderly dividing different sections. There’s a slight twitch of movement, and when Narek speaks again, his breath tickles the shell of Elnor’s left ear. “How do you want it?”

Elnor’s tongue traces his lips—they’re suddenly dry. He doesn’t know. The same as always, maybe. But he has a feeling that Narek knows many new tricks that would look ravishing. He finds himself blurting, purely because it’s simple to say: “Braid it.”

Narek hums, “As you wish.” His breath is just as warm and captivating as his fingers. They glide through Elnor’s hair—he can feel the gentle tug against his scalp as the sections are rearranged. It doesn’t hurt in the slightest—Narek’s touch is blissfully _gentle_. It’s defter, more delicate, than Elnor would’ve given him credit for. The two side sections fall to Elnor’s back, the middle one held in suspension, as Narek reaches around Elnor’s taut body. 

The brush is plucked from his lap. Then it’s sliding through his hair in sleek, fluid strokes that put Elnor at ease. He can feel his lashes fluttering lower, his posture minutely relaxing—he’s still on guard, but he lets himself enjoy the moment, because Narek’s making it so very enjoyable. He doesn’t have to admit that aloud. He almost wants to insist again that he _doesn’t like Narek_ , except now, that might feel just a tad too much like a _lie_.

He reminds himself this is a man who killed friends of Elnor’s friends without honour or reason, but then the brush’s spindles ghost along his scalp, and the memory fades. He’s instead lost in the care Narek pays him, the way every last nanometer of his hair is lovingly tended. By the time Narek sets the brush down beside them, Elnor is positive he’s completely tangle-free. 

Narek braids as well as he brushed, though he pulls the loops just tight enough that Elnor can feel the tug, and his breath hitches, head tilting back, scalp tingling. Narek whispers again, “ _Beautiful_.”

And then, too soon, Narek is fastening a tie out of the very ends, knotting the braid in place, and it’s over. It falls against Elnor’s spine, complete. He sits there for several seconds afterwards, unwilling to surrender the moment. 

When he does turn, Narek’s eyes are watching him carefully. They’re remarkably clear. They flicker to the braid, and Narek wraps it casually around his palm, thumbing the thick waves. Elnor sees Narek’s own hair in a different light. 

Elnor indulges his desires again. He lets himself reach out, fingers curling against the stubble that lines Narek’s jaw. He gently strokes it, shivering at the subtle scratch of it, the almost exotic texture, following the hard line up Narek’s cheek, tracing the soft curve of his ear, up into his shorn hair. Then Elnor realizes what he’s doing and snatches his hand back all at once. 

Narek gives him a silent grin that makes his stomach do strange things. He straightens his posture, consciously regaining himself, and changes the subject: “You were wise not to try and fight your way out.”

Narek counters, “Maybe I’m trying to seduce my way out instead.”

Elnor blinks, dazed, and then Narek’s leaning forward, and for whatever reason, Elnor doesn’t wrench away. He lets Narek’s lips brush over his, and it sends a spark through his whole body more powerful than any wound. It’s Elnor’s first kiss. He doesn’t know what to think of it. Doesn’t know what to think of _Narek_. His cheeks are burning.

Perilously close to Elnor, Narek asks, “Doesn’t absolute candor mean you have to admit you’re into this and kiss me back?”

There are footsteps at the end of the hallway. Not headed towards them, but enough for Elnor’s brain to come back online—he surges up to his feet and marches forward, crossing over the unmarked line—the shield’s up again without him even having to call it. He makes the mistake of looking back. 

Narek holds up the brush Elnor left inside. Elnor’s trembling too hard to go back for it. Narek suggests, “Come back tomorrow.”

Elnor says, “I won’t,” before storming off. 

He hates that he’s lying.


End file.
